Sherlock's Return
by Lessa-the-Lioness
Summary: After 3 years, John Watson has almost gotten over the death of his best friend. But then Sherlock miraculously returns, cocky as ever, and John is confused. Well, he's often confused, but now he's also very very angry.


The case, as usual, slightly confused John Watson.

He was mostly sure that Lestrade had only asked him to come to the crime scene out of pity. He was no Sherlock Holmes, that's for sure.

Damn. The thought still hurt, 3 years later. It just wasn't…. No, he just needed to call down, distract himself.

Lestrade walked over, his silvered hair shining in the sunlight. "Well?" he asked, a bit gruffly.

"I…" John cleared his throat. "I'm pretty sure it was the maid." He pronounced, hoping he hadn't missed anything important. It seemed a pretty clear cut case. The police _had_ found her footprints after all.

"It was _clearly_ the butler." A voice proclaimed from behind John, one he had thought he would never hear again, outside of his imagination and memories.

John laughed disbelievingly, turning around slowly to face the speaker. It couldn't be him, not after 3 years. But when he turned around, there stood Sherlock Holmes, neatly pressed, looking as if he hadn't been gone a day, much less _three years_.

Seeing the disbelief written all over John's face, Sherlock smiled slightly. "Come now, you didn't actually believe I would confront Moriarty without planning ahead, did you?"

He didn't even flinch away when John punched him, even though it obviously hurt. He almost fell over from the force of the blow. Touching his hand to his face, he said simply "I suppose I deserved that."

"You suppose?" John mocked, shifting slightly. He was still very mad. After 3 years, the… bloody idiot just shows up, smiling and sarcastic, acting like nothing had ever happened?

Lestrade cleared his throat, slightly embarrassed about interfering between the two. "Hate to interrupt, but… you said the _butler_?"

"Of course!" Sherlock snorted, as if it was obvious.

"But…" John said, looking at Sherlock. The butler didn't even have a motive! And they had found the _maid's_ footprints.

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. "The shoes, John, the shoes! It's obvious someone with larger feet stuffed his feet inside the maid's shoes for long enough to leave false evidence, and, once the victim's diary is found, it will show that the butler had just been asked to leave that evening. A rather simple case actually." He proclaimed.

Lestrade just shook his head at Sherlock's explanation. "Welcome back." He said simply, and began writing in his book.

John advanced on the detective. "You knew?" he asked accusingly.

"Do think it through, John." Sherlock said scathingly. "Of course he didn't!"

"Anyone else?" John turned back, pointing at Sherlock. "Did anyone else know?"

"Molly Hooper. But that's…" Sherlock continued over John's protests, "beside the point!" he spread his arms wide. "I'm back." He said dramatically.

"Right, well, have fun with that." John said, turning away. He limped towards the road, his cane making soft noises on the pavement. He was intent on summoning a taxi, while still listening to the conversation going on behind him.

"Lestrade looked up, a smirk on his face. "He's a bit put out." He explained to Sherlock helpfully.

"I am NOT 'put out'!" John yelled from the side of the road, before he got into the hailed taxi.

Once inside the taxi, headed towards his flat, John's mind raced. How had Sherlock survived? He had seen him dead with his own eyes! John had always hoped, in his heart, that Sherlock had not died somehow, but now, after 3 years? Why had he waited so long? And _why_ didn't he feel the need to tell his _only_ friend that he wasn't, in fact, dead?

The whole thing made him rather angry. Even more than he was when he thought Sherlock had died. Sherlock had always been… high-handed when it came to emotions, but this was ridiculous.

He definitely needed to have a talk with Sherlock. Pretending to be dead for 3 years was _definitely_ not on the okay list.

When John got back to his own flat, thoughts still racing through his head, he noticed that the door was no longer locked. He took a deep breath and walked through the door.

Sherlock was sitting in his living room, sitting quietly with his fingers steepled.

"NO." John said forcefully. He was definitely not ready to talk to Sherlock yet, and he had left the door locked for a reason! …Not that a locked door stopped the world's only consulting detective.

"My dear John…" Sherlock began placatingly.

"Get out." John said, pointing at the door. He interrupted Sherlock with a wave of his angry finger. "No. Out. My flat, my rules. Go see Mrs. Hudson or something, she'd be delighted to know that you are _still alive_." He spat the last words.

Sherlock looked at him, examining his flushed and angry face. Then he nodded and walked out, closing the door behind him.

John sighed, collapsing into his armchair. He should probably text Molly, let her know that… Oh, of course. Sherlock had already _told_ her. Ungrateful sot. Sherlock of course, not Molly, she must have had a terrible time of keeping it a secret.

He stood up and brewed himself a cup of tea, hoping the hot liquid would help him think.

It was the next day, and John still hadn't discussed anything with Sherlock. He had just sat down to eat his toast when Sherlock burst through the door, face flushed, exclaiming that John needed to _come on_ they didn't have all day!

"Sherlock, what…" John started, confused.

"No time to talk, we have to go! …Where do you keep your gun?" Sherlock interrupted John, grabbing his arm to lift him from his chair.

"Sherlock, stop." John said firmly, pulling his arm from Sherlock's grip.

Sherlock stopped and faced him, face puzzled. "What?" he asked

"I'm not going anywhere until you explain what's going on." John insisted.

"It's a case John, an interesting one, but the police will muddle it all up if…" Sherlock stopped as John glared at him pointedly. Sherlock sighed. "I knew Moriarty wouldn't stop until I was dead, so I took precautions. The only way to keep _you_ alive was for me to 'die.' Moriarty's organisation still continued after his death."

John looked confused. "But, you're back now, though…"

Sherlock shrugged. "I broke apart his web, got rid of the necessary parts. I took longer than I expected, however."

John was still slightly confused. "But _how_?"

"Later, John!" Sherlock said impatiently. "Come _on_!"

John sighed. "Alright, alright!" he reached into a nearby drawer and grabbed the familiar gun before running out the door after Sherlock, forgetting entirely about his breakfast.

His cane was remained propped up against the table, the excitement of chasing after Sherlock had driven its existence from the old soldier's mind.

Two days later, after the case had been solved, the killer caught, and Sherlock was eating again, Mrs Hudson asked when the two were moving back in.

"It really isn't a trouble, I've missed you so." She explained. "And no one will rent it, because of it being where you lived and all…" she finished, handing them both piping hot cups of tea.

John looked at Sherlock. It would be nice to move back in, now that it was no longer filled with sad memories. And single flats were expensive.

Sherlock nodded. "I do need a place to conduct experiments…" he said, looking at John.

"And _sleep_." John said forcefully. Sherlock tipped his head.

Once they had moved back in, (which had gone rather quickly, because Sherlock had needed _something_ to do to stave off the boredom) and were settled comfortably in their respective chairs, John figured it was a good time to ask.

"How _did_ you do it? Fake your death I mean."


End file.
